


ashen knuckles, burning eyes

by soul_speed



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Child Abandonment, Gen, Piglin Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Realistic Minecraft, The Nether (Minecraft), basically tommy grows up in the nether. the ideal habitat for a human child, christ i have no idea how to tag, i guess? but hes not too worried abt it, mild handwaving of the physical effects of a human child growing up in basically cave hell, such a fun setting to write in, techno "orphan punter" blade is denied putting his title into practice. thanks phil, this feels like a setup piece more than anything tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:02:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28450593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soul_speed/pseuds/soul_speed
Summary: As he works, the Nether chitters and burbles around him, achingly familiar. Lava crackles far below, sloshing against crimson shores in waves of fiery orange. Striders skitter across its surface, and far off, a ghast wails its melancholy cry. He lets his own voice join the soundscape, humming the notes of the only song he knows.With a sigh, he settles in. His back meets the wall of blue-threaded netherrack behind him, and the warmth soaks through his clothes and into his skin. Honestly, as much as he grumbles about the heat, it doesn’t bother him much anymore. Little about the Nether does. As treacherous and bloodthirsty as it is, it’s all he’s ever known.It’s home.----In which Tommy tries to make soup, attempts to rob a celebrity, accepts a bribe, entirely upends his own life, and gets sort-of-maybe kidnapped. Well, no one ever said growing up in the Nether was boring.
Relationships: Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 54
Kudos: 733





	ashen knuckles, burning eyes

**Author's Note:**

> fun fact i sat down and wrote this shit in a single go. 2 am to 10 am without pause. hubris. anyways here's nether gremlin boy, because i can't actually write any of my detailed, well-plotted aus, just random oneshots inspired by dicking around in nether-only survival worlds
> 
> this is pulling from the dsmp personas to the best of my ability but if any ccs express discomfort w this kind of thing i'll yeet it, you know the drill. this is just for kicks, and because my mcyt brainrot won't let me write about anything else. also please don't interact if u ship ccs that aren't explicitly comfortable with it thanks

_A wooden cart clatters over a thin stone bridge, shuddering precariously. The horse tied to it huffs and pants, straining with every step. Firelight gleams in its dark eyes, though it hardly seems aware of it._

_Behind it, in the little cart, a woman screams. Someone furiously shushes her, but the demand goes unheard. The crying continues, intermittently pausing for panting. The sound seems to ring out into the cavern, fizzling out in the heat._

_The cart wheels clatter and squeak as cobbled stone trades for spongy rock. Far below, a few flat-faced creatures gaze curiously up from the surface of a sea of fire, guttering and chirping. The horse does not hear them, heaving the cart away from the little bridge and towards the spot of violet in the distance._

_“Almost there,” someone says, hidden beneath another scream. Wailing joins the first voice, thinner and higher. Someone sighs, and the screaming finally tapers off. The panting continues, though less strained._

_“There it is,” the someone says, unimpressed. “Looks healthy.”_

_“I don’t care,” a new voice snaps, raspy and trembling. “Just get rid o-of it. Let the Nether take it.”_

_Someone scoffs, but doesn’t disagree. The wailing continues, a siren-call to the creatures that stalk this hell, and someone hisses under their breath. Fabric is grabbed and swaddled; a moment later, a man leans out of the back of the cart, depositing something on the spongy stone behind them. A child, stumpy fists grabbing at sulfurous air, screaming like a banshee._

_The horse plods forward. The cart rattles along. The strangers do not look back._

_The child is left, delivered into the callous hands of the realm of the damned. The Nether takes him._

_But it does not kill him._

——

Bare, calloused feet pound against red-stained nylium. A panting mouth of too-small teeth pulls in burning air, off-rhythm with the fluttering rhythm of an overworked heart. Towering fungi pass in a blur, observed, analyzed, and forgotten.

Behind, something squeals.

The boy squeals back, baring tusks he doesn’t have and hopping a tangle of roots. The hoglin pursuing him charges right through it, soft wood exploding to splinters beneath the onslaught. The boy barks a laugh, hooking a hand around a slumping stem and swinging himself to the right. The hoglin follows.

The crimson forest is kind to no one. The air here is acrid and sour, heavy with the cloying sweetness of decay. The hoglins kill and devour, and the fungi suck the nutrients from the carrion, sprouting up into a forest of towering mushrooms. It’s hell to navigate to the inexperienced, a death trap for the unprepared.

A weapon, in the hands of the wise.

The boy skids left, hopping a brief break in the ground that opens up to the sea of fire below. The hoglin makes the same jump, hooves skidding on the nylium, and thunders right into a circle of leather rope.

The snare snaps shut around solid muscle, and a mushroom is released from its bindings, bolting upright. The hoglin screams as it’s ripped right off the ground, dangling from one broken leg. Though it striggles and writhes, snorting furiously, there is no escape.

The boy drops down from his concealed perch, grinning like something feral. The hoglin roars, and he whoops in its face, holding his arms out and bouncing victoriously. 

“ _Gotcha_ , bitch,” he says, in low snorts and rumbles unbefitting his small mouth. If the hoglin notices the discrepancy, it gives no indication.

The boy hefts his weapon; a sturdy spear of blue-green wood, whittled to a point at one end. He grimaces as he does, eyeing the tip of it with discontent.

“Would be a lot fuckin’ easier with my sword.”

A cloud hangs over his expression, then passes. He bares his teeth in a grin.

“That won’t save you, though.”

Killing and properly butchering a hoglin is a hard-earned skill. They’re tenacious bastards, hard to fight and harder to kill. Their hides are as tough as iron, and their jaws can snap through the trunk of a fully grown fungus. Skinning them’s tough work, and cooking their flame resistant meat is just as much of a trial. But the rewards are well worth it, to the skilled hunter.

And Tommy’s learned from the best.

As the light bleeds from the hoglin’s glazed eyes, he releases the snare and shoulders the hoglin’s body onto a makeshift wooden sled. From there, it’s a long, aching haul back home, through the crimson forest, across the wastes, and down through the warped wood. But he’s made this trek before, and he’s nothing if not equipped for the journey.

For the most part, he’s left alone. The wastes are blissfully empty, save for a single hunting party that trudges past him. He eyes them warily, hoping its not the Lava’s Throat and his lot on their way to steal his kill. It isn’t; rather, he meets eyes with the Goldtwister and earns a respectful thump of the chest. He nods back, baring his teeth pridefully, and continues on.

In the warped wood, his only companions are wandering endermen, who seem more concerned with the mushrooms and vines they carry than him. So he soldiers on, uninterrupted, until he’s finally home. 

There’s not enough room inside to haul in a hoglin, so he leaves it at the doorstep and darts in to gather what he needs. He returns with a wicked little knife and a scraper, and so the process begins.

As he works, the Nether chitters and burbles around him, achingly familiar. Lava crackles far below, sloshing against crimson shores in waves of fiery orange. Striders skitter across its surface, and far off, a ghast wails its melancholy cry. He lets his own voice join the soundscape, humming the notes of the only song he knows. 

With a sigh, he settles in. His back meets the wall of blue-threaded netherrack behind him, and the warmth soaks through his clothes and into his skin. Honestly, as much as he grumbles about the heat, it doesn’t bother him much anymore. Little about the Nether does. As treacherous and bloodthirsty as it is, it’s all he’s ever known. It’s home. 

And it’s not all bad. He likes the striders; they’re cute, with their wide, flat faces and vacant eyes, and they let him sit cross-legged on their backs as they toddle across the sea. He likes exploring with them, letting their aimless path guide him to places of the hellscape he’s never seen. The wonder’s mostly worn off, these days, but sometimes he’ll tilt his head back and look up at an absolutely enormous cavern, rising for what feels like miles and nearly vanishing into the distance, and he can’t help his quiet awe.

The Nether, if nothing else, is certainly a geographic marvel.

Sometimes, he misses the place where he’d first learned to fight. The bastion, a crumbling empire of blackstone and gold, had jutted from the ground in the middle of the largest warped forest he’s ever seen. It had gone as far as to spread across the ceiling, and the great fungi that sprouted there grew downward, a sprawling, upside-down forest. 

He’d climbed up, once, clinging to the wall with tiny fingers and easing out onto the underside of a mushroom head. Looking out at the reversed landscape and then down at the bastion below had been one of of the most dizzying experiences he’s ever had. 

One day, he’ll go back. To properly explore it, now that he’s strong enough.

He works apart the hoglin quickly, moving with practiced ease. When he’s done, he’s left with precious pork, hogleather, and an assortment of leftover parts. The meat ends up stowed in his food chest, and the leather is hung up on the wall. The leftovers, he kicks off into the lava lake below, to smolder and dissolve.

He looks over his handiwork with his hands on his hips, and his stomach grumbles. Probably because he hasn’t eaten shit since last night. He’s got pork now, but it’s also nearly heatrise. He doesn’t have the stuff or time to properly cook the meat right now; a stew will be a quicker, better option. 

He rifles through his chest. Bowls, he has. Mushrooms, he lacks.

“Fuck,” he grumbles, snatching up his spear, and resigns himself to a late run to the wastes. He doesn’t need many, just enough for a quick stew. He can stockpile later.

Fatigue from dragging the hoglin still weighs on him, but he scampers up into the mushroom-tops and weaves across the warped wood. The one upside of the spear is that it works well as a vaulting pole; he’s able to shove himself over previously uncrossable gaps, and the efficiency of it brings a grin to his face. Maybe he’ll consider keeping it.

He reaches the edge of the warped wood quickly, looking out over the wastes. But just as he’s about to leap down, crunching catches his attention. Footsteps, treading over the netherrack. He drops like a stone, pressing himself low against the spongy surface of the fungus, and waits. A moment later, the owner of the footsteps strides into view.

He blinks.

It’s a piglin, but it certainly isn’t dressed like one. Instead of stiff hogleather, it’s adorned in shining blue armor, shimmering like the surface of a magma pool. In one hand, it carries a wicked-looking blade of the same material, and in the other, a sturdy, battered shield. A wreath of gold rests atop his head, and his fingers twitch instinctively for it before he stills them. Whoever this piglin is, it is clearly _not_ to be fucked with. 

So he observes, clinging to the top of the warped fungus with stiff muscles. The piglin wanders obliviously across the wastes, a strange regality in its steady walk. Some kind of leader, then? With gear like that, it wouldn’t be surprising. But then he’d have _heard_ of it, at least in passing. Someone would be looking to challenge, and he’d have overheard. 

He narrows his eyes. The uncertainty rolls in his gut, refusing to settle.

Just when he thinks things can’t grow any stranger, the piglin is joined— not by another piglin, he realizes with a start, but by a _man_ . A man, clad in the same shimmering blue gear with a thin sword to match, carrying a pack stuffed to the brim over his shoulder. When the man first arrives, Tommy waits with bated breath for the piglin to glare and strike. But it simply snorts, head tilted, and Tommy realizes that they’re _friends._ Friends that appear to be _talking_. And isn’t that something— a piglin that knows the man’s language.

He strains his ears, leaning forward on the warped wart, but their conversation is faint and largely gibberish to his ears. He catches a few familiar words— _Nether, trade, needed, go—_ but they’re scarce and not nearly enough to go off of. He hopes the piglin might reply in, well, piglin, but to no avail. 

The man says something and turns, away from Tommy, and that’s when he catches sight of the item bulging from the man’s bag: a solid _block_ of gold, gleaming in the firelight like something holy. It’s smooth, bubble-less; the kind of thing most piglins would _slaughter_ to get their hooves on.

The kind of thing he could barter his sword back with.

It’s a once-in-a-lifetime chance, one he’ll probably never get again, least of all before something _kills_ his sorry, sword-less ass. Whatever the cost, he needs to get his hands on that gold block.

Fighting isn’t an option. Even if he had a weapon, there’s two of them, armored to the bones. He’s got nothing on him but his hogleather clothes and a flimsy warped-stem spear. Stealth is the option, then. If he can get to an overhang, ideally _the_ overhang, he can pluck the block up without them noticing. Snatch it away from right under— well, _over_ — their noses. Boom. Perfect plan.

So, when the strange duo walks away from him, he pulls down his hood, and he follows.

Trailing something unnoticed over the crimson wastes is tricky business, he’s learned. The monotony of the wastes makes anything that isn’t blood-red and porous stick out like a sore thumb, and the stupid ground is _awful_ loud to walk on. He’s lucky enough that his hogleather clothes are stained slightly red from his time in the crimson forest, but it’s not enough to protect him on its own. So he stays low to the ground, moving when they move, ducking behind the occasional outcropping when one arises.

To its credit, the piglin isn’t entirely inobservant. Its ears flick when his feet crunch too loudly on the netherrack, and it glances around often, sword in a ready grip. But he carries with him the usual advantage of being something unforeseen; the piglin is keeping an eye out for rattlers or fire-wraiths, not a fungus-stained, innocuous boy. 

Eventually, they pass the flattest of the plains and reach the spot where the ceiling opens up into multiple levels. The strange duo remains on their flat path while Tommy, breathing a sigh of relief, scampers up onto the one above them. It’s much easier to follow, creeping along above with a solid layer of netherrack between him and being spotted. It’s no leisurely stroll along the lava-lake, but it’s better than half-crawling across the flats. 

Finally, they near the place he hoped they’d pass; the Robber’s Hook, where the netherrack slopes down and opens up in _just_ the right place to easily snatch riches from unsuspecting travelers’ bags. He grins and races to beat them there, shimmying into the right position and bracing over the hole. Now, he just has to hope that the blue-armored piglin doesn’t recognize this spot for what it is and avoid it. If it’s as unfamiliar with the Nether as it seems, then he’s golden.

And he seems to be in luck. The piglin doesn’t grow any more alert as it and its companion approach the Hook, sword swaying in its grip. When they’re nearly under him, he sucks in a breath and holds it, staying deathly still. Seconds slow, his heart pounds in his ears, and he waits.

 _Ba-bum._ The man steps right beneath him. _Ba-bum._ He reaches down, spider-like, and closes his hand around the golden block. _Ba-bum._ It snaps to his own inventory, thinning into a card that he easily slides from the man’s pack. _Ba-bum._

His eyes meet the pale gold of the piglin’s, and he freezes.

_Ba-bum. Ba-bum. Ba-bum._

He tries to yank his arm up, but he’s not quick enough. The piglin’s on him in the blink of an eye, solid hooves curling around his wrist, yanking him down from his perch. He gives a cry as he tumbles to the spongy ground, landing awkwardly on his shoulder and twisting onto his stomach to guard himself. The gold block he clutches white-knuckled to his chest, between his ribs and his knees.

The man and the piglin are both chattering, the man in surprise and the piglin with a low fury that he could smell a mile off. His mind’s eye snaps to the shape of that wicked blue blade, and he freezes. He can soldier through a stab to the back, if he’s lucky enough to escape after, but it’ll _suck._

But the piglin doesn’t run him through. Instead, hooves grip his shoulder, yanking him over onto his back. He hisses at the exposure, curling his knees up to his chest and fumbling with his free hand for his spear. He expects the piglin to be on him immediately, grappling him for the gold, but it… doesn’t.

Instead, the piglin and the man stand stock-still, regarding him with equally shellshocked looks. It’s… a little jarring. He’s never seen another man from so close before, nor has he seen a genuine expression other than pissed-the-fuck-off on a piglin’s face. He feels oddly unprotected under their gaze, like their eyes pierce right through his hogleather and his skin to the bones beneath, and he snarls at them again.

The man immediately steps forward, hands raised placatingly, babbling at him with words he can’t understand. _Hey, hey, hey_ , is all he gets, before it descends into senseless, soft-spoken gibberish. He feels like a wounded strider, being beckoned by soft grumbles and a head of warped fungus. He curls his lip at it, wishing he had tusks to bare, and looks past the man to the piglin.

“If you’re gonna run me through, then get it over with,” he growls. The piglin starts, and the man freezes. Pale eyes regard him, equal parts baffled and wary, and for a moment he thinks there is no way in all the wastes that he met the one piglin that doesn’t know how to _talk._

Miraculously, his luck isn’t _that_ irredeemably shitty. The piglin kneels in front of him, and though its voice is strange and halting, it’s comprehensible.

“What did you say?”

“I said, if you’re gonna run me through, then _get it over with_.” He gives a warning squeal, clutching the gold block closer to his chest. “I’ve got places to be. So either stab me or fuck off.”

The piglin’s ears flick with surprise, and it glances to the man. The man says something questioning, just as surprised, and the piglin answers. The man blanks. Tommy’s not sure what to make of it all.

The piglin turns back to him. “We’re not gonna kill you. Who are you?”

He sits up, scooting back a bit. “ _The Wraithkiller_ ,” he snaps, with as much ferocity as he can muster. The piglin’s brows raise, then lower.

“Your name, kid, not your title.”

“Wha?” The _fuck?_ They aren’t _friends_. “What the fuck for?”

“For starters, I’m not callin' a skinny twig _Wraithkiller._ ”

He bristles, curling his lip again. “Good. I wouldn’t want my title in your mouth anyway.”

The piglin’s ears flick with irritation, and it murmurs something to the man before continuing.

“Fine, have it your way, brat. Why are you here? How do you speak piglin?”

“Why the hell do _you_ care? I’ve always been here. S’where I grew up.”

The piglin stills. “You… grew up here? Your family raised you _here?_ ”

“I ain’t got no fuckin’ family, _bitch_.” He scuttles back another precious meter or so. “I raised me.”

It’s a half-truth; he was looked after, once, but in a distanced, indifferent way. Like a fragile pup being trained into a vicious hunting hound, tossed scraps and kept alive for the aid it might offer one day. Others pulled him from death’s shadow, but it was him who stitched together the will to thrive, who snarled and snapped and fended for himself.

The piglin stares at him, equally pitying and impressed. It’s _weird_ ; piglin aren’t supposed to emote like this. Not like a _human_. 

“Who are _you ?_ ” He asks. “I’ve never seen you around before. At least, not in the glitzy gear.”

“Technoblade,” the piglin offers simply, and he frowns, turning it over in his mind and trying to decipher the origin of such an odd title. He stops when he realizes it’s not a title, but a _name_.

“I don’t want your fuckin’ name,” he snaps. “We’re not friends. What’s your title?”

The piglin pauses, then sighs deeply. “Ugh, _fine._ The Blood God.”

The effect is immediate. He stiffens, dread sinking in his gut. _The_ Blood God? There’s no fucking way.

“Bullshit,” he says with more courage than he feels, inching backwards. His previous moxie is evaporating into the boiling air by the second; if this piglin’s actually _the_ Blood God, then he’s _beyond_ fucked. He’s heard the whispers. He knows the stories.

“So you’ve heard of me,” the Blood God says, curious. “How? I can’t imagine the piglins like someone like you snoopin’ around.”

“They respect me,” he snaps, hands trembling. “Where the fuck d’you think I got the title from?”

“Kinda suspected you gave it to yourself,” the Blood God snorts. _That_ strikes a nerve, and he bolts to his feet, baring his teeth. The Blood God stands with him and still towers over him, but he doesn’t care.

“ _Fuck_ you,” he says. “I don’t care if you’re the Blood God, don’t say that shit to me or I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” The Blood God says, bored. “You’ll stab me? With your little stick?”

 _God_ he wishes he had that sword now. He hefts his spear nonetheless, readying his stance. If he dies defending his honor before the Blood God, so be it. He hasn’t clawed his way to survival to be spit on by some high and mighty piglin.

The Blood God tilts his head, only to be stopped by a hand on its shoulder. The man, who Tommy had forgotten about, quite frankly, shakes his head, and the Blood God sighs and releases the pommel of his sword. _That_ throws Tommy for a loop. Who’s this _human_ who can tell the fucking _Blood God_ to stand down and be _obeyed?_

“Who’s he?” He asks. 

The Blood God’s brows lift. “Who, him? That’s Phil.”

Tommy shifts his grip on his spear uncomfortably. “Does he… have a title?”

A snort. “Course not, he’s human. We call him Philza sometimes, if that makes you feel better.”

It’s not a direct name. He’ll take it. “Why’s he here? Why’s he with _you?_ ”

“Because he’s my friend, and we’re getting supplies.”

“For _what?_ ”

“Doesn’t matter. Back to you. Have you ever left the Nether?”

He shakes his head. He’s never needed to, and he doesn’t know how to make a portal. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself once he got there, anyway.

The Blood God’s brows lift. “ _Never?_ Not once?”

“Why the fuck are you interrogating me?” He squawks. “Are you gonna kill me or _not?”_

“No.”

The Blood God turns to converse with Philza again, for longer this time. Tommy taps his foot impatiently, debating making a break for it. It’s tempting, but if this really is the Blood God, he could overtake him in seconds. Or just shoot him, if he has a crossbow, which is more than likely. 

Finally, he’s addressed again. “You got a house?”

He stills, frowning. “I— what?”

“Do you have a house? Somewhere to live?”

“Of course I have a fuckin’ house, what kind of question—”

“Mind takin’ us there?”

He blanks, mind screeching to a halt. “ _What?_ Why?”

“I want to see it.” The Blood God shrugs.

“I’m not just _taking you_ to my house—”

“Do it, and I’ll let you keep the gold block you stole and give you two more.”

 _That_ shuts him up. Is he really that rich that he can just give out gold blocks? 

Apparently, yes. His offer seems genuine, and he even goes as far as pulling out the other two blocks to show Tommy. They gleam with the same perfect richness as the first, and he eyes them thoughtfully. With bargaining chips like that, he’d be a _king_. 

He hesitates a moment longer, then gives into his itching gold-snatcher instinct. “Swear on your title,” he demands as a safety net, half-expecting to be skewered just for asking. But the Blood God only chuffs. 

“Haven’t done that in a while. Sure.” He clears his throat. “I, the Blood God, swear on my title that I will hold to our agreement come blood or fire.”

Tommy throws out a hand and thumps his chest in acknowledgment, and the Blood God falters, then follows suit. 

It all makes him a little giddy in an odd, adrenaline-rushed way. He’s striking a deal with _the Blood God_ , who swore on his title and didn’t slash his throat for daring to question his integrity. And whatever happens, he’s going to get _three gold blocks._ There’s no way he won’t have his sword back by next heatrise.

“Alright, then,” he says. “Follow me.”

He sets off at a trotting pace, and the strange duo exchanges glances, but hurries to stay on his heels. They, in their sturdy armor and heavy weaponry, have the luxury of being able to walk. He doesn’t. Every second in the barren wastes is a chance for a ghast to come drifting along and blast him to bits, and he hasn’t got a bow. So he doesn’t sprint, but he certainly doesn’t walk, and the party seems to have no trouble keeping up.

If they notice him plucking up any natural mushrooms they pass, they don’t comment on it.

He guides them through the wastes, then to the warped forest, scurrying up to the mushroom-tops with ease. It would be easy to bounce along and be safely home in minutes, but he slows his pace to let his tagalongs see the path he takes. Gaps here can be deceiving; when he first settled, he’d nearly broken his legs multiple times by failing jumps that seemed more than possible. 

Relievingly, the Blood God and his strange companion don’t fall, and ultimately seem to have little trouble keeping up. The man even seems to be having fun bouncing across the fungi, and when Tommy catches his eye, he makes a point of jumping at just the right angle to send himself springing through the air. The man mirrors him, albeit clumsily, and he grins. The piglins always thought he was dumb for this, sneering and calling him _little ooze_ , but it seems _someone_ appreciates it.

Finally, he reaches the edge of the warped forest, where a towering wall of netherrack slopes up to the cavern roof. He slides down the side of a sloped fungus, landing in a roll and bouncing up. Sure enough, there’s his door, set into the wall and camouflaged by mossy blue-green nylium.

He pulls the door open, ushering his guests in, then locks it shut and sucks in a breath. The air here is stale and slightly sour, but anything that’s not smoky brimstone is a welcome respite.

“So!” He says, turning to snatch a flint and steel off the shelf by the door. A few sharp strikes, and the torch on the wall catches, illuminating the room in a soft orange glow. “Welcome to my incredible home. Why’d you want to come here, exactly?”

“...Just wanted to see,” the Blood God says, oddly quiet. At his side, Philza takes on a strange expression, drawing a feather-light hand along the crumbling walls. Tommy’s not sure what the big deal is; sure, his house isn’t a _bastion_ , but it’s _functional._ It has four walls, chests for storage, a cut slab of warped wart for a bed, and light. It is admittedly a bit of a mess, with items strewn across the floor from where he’d been reorganizing (looking for something to trade for his goddamn _sword_ back) last night, but in his defense, he hadn’t been expecting visitors.

Philza reaches up and pokes the low ceiling, and a few chunks of netherrack crumble away and scatter to the floor. Tommy hisses and smacks his hand.

“Hey, don’t _touch_ that, you’ll bring the whole ceiling down—” He pauses, realizing his mistake, then turns to the Blood God. “Tell him—”

“I think he got it,” the Blood God says. Tommy blinks.

“How?”

“Context.” A brief pause. “Is this— your home, or an outpost?”

“My home, obviously,” Tommy snorts. “I built it years ago. It’s never let me down.”

Except for the time a ghast had shot the cliff overhead and the whole thing had collapsed with him inside and he’d had to dig himself out with his bare hands. But that was one thing, over a year ago, and now he always keeps a pickaxe on him.

The Blood God pauses and says something to Philza, who blanches and gives Tommy a slightly panicked look. Tommy frowns, taking a step back. 

“What’d you tell him?”

“Just that you live here.”

“Why’s he all… freaked out?”

“It’s not exactly the safest home he’s ever seen.” 

Tommy laughs. “It’s the _Nether_. Nothing’s safe. You know, blood for blood, the toughest will rise.”

He expects a snort, or a grin, or at least _some_ kind of acknowledgement. But the Blood God just regards him, a strange sadness in his pale eyes that scratches uncomfortably at his ribs. He doesn’t like that look. He doesn’t know what to do with it.

“...So,” he says when the silence becomes suffocating. “Can I have my gold now?”

“Sure,” the Blood God sighs, beckoning Philza over to root through his bag. After a moment of rummaging, he tosses all three cards to Tommy, who sifts through them like they’re made of, well, gold. They’re legit. Giddiness buzzes in his chest. He can get his sword back with this. And buy a shield off of Spinebreaker. And maybe even get a _crossbow_. 

“What are you planning to do with that?” The Blood God asks. 

“None of your business,” Tommy says back, unable to tear his eyes away. God, he’s _made._

The Blood God starts conversating with Philza _again_ , and though he tries to listen, he only catches the occasional _Nether_ or _leave._ So he gives up, dropping down cross-legged on the floor to finish putting his items back in his chest. Eyes burn into his back as he works, and he ignores them. When he’s done, he snaps the chest shut and stands. The conversation has ended. They’re both staring at him.

“Well, Wraithkiller,” the Blood God says, “thanks for the hospitality. May you— crap, how’s it go again— may you…”

“Your,” Tommy slides in helpfully.

“ _Right._ May your blood burn brightly, kid. We’ll be seeing you.”

He’s not sure what to make of the latter part of that, so he ignores it. “May your blood burn brightly, Blood God,” he returns with a grin. “Thanks for the gold.”

“Don’t squander it,” the Blood God snorts, turning towards the door. Immediately, Philza bursts into a flurry of chattering, gesturing frantically at Tommy. The Blood God ignores him, pushing the door open, and says something low and careful. Philza straightens, jaw tightening. The Blood God meets his eyes and tacks on two more words, and whatever they mean sees Philza finally relent, slumping with a sigh. His eyes find Tommy’s, dull and apologetic, and he pointedly informs Tommy of something in absolute gibberish. Tommy blinks, and the man smiles sadly and heads out the door.

Just like that, they’re both gone, and Tommy is left standing in his empty house, stunned. The whole situation had been so quick and strange; if it weren’t for the gold blocks in his tight grip, he wouldn’t have believed it happened. But it _did_ , and not only has he got a story to tell, he has a plan.

The first step is finally making his goddamn stew.

——

He wakes at heatfall, kicking out of bed just as the air outside begins to cool. He can still hear it blistering at his door, so he bides his time by heating up leftover stew for breakfast. It’s rich and salty, much tastier than the simple mushroom stew, and he sucks it down greedily and washes it back with a bottle of water. He’s close to running out; he’ll need to grab more today at the trading post. Best to grab those first, before the water barons find out he’s carrying gold blocks on him and try to hike up their prices. 

Gold blocks. He really has gold blocks. He’d triple-checked when he’d woken up, half-expecting it to all be some bizarre fever dream. But no. They’re real. He met the Blood God, and lived to tell the tale. He’s gonna get his sword back.

He punches the air and does a victory dance around his house, then grabs his bag, latches his spear to his back, and sprints out the door for Thunderhold. 

It’s still in the early stages of heatfall, but he’s hoping to beat the market crowds, so he endures the feverish air and races across the wastes. Thunderhold, sprawling out beneath the remains of one of the larger bastions, is a ways away. It’s both a blessing and a curse; it’s nice to not be bothered by piglins constantly, especially by the ones that hate his guts for whatever reason, but it makes lugging hauls to and from a pain in the ass. But everything in the Nether’s a pain in the ass, so he manages.

The path he travels is winding, well-worn into his mind. It takes him out into the wastes, then down the cliffs and over the sea to the dark shores of the whispering valley. A few rattlers take their best shot at him as he passes, but he’s out of range before they can hope to do more than graze him. He can hear their footsteps pursuing him for an oddly long time, but ignores it and outpaces them. The footsteps fade to unimportance. 

Finally, just as he begins to lose his waking adrenaline, the bastion rises out of the gloom like the blackened skeleton of some great beast. A grin splits his face, and he hops up onto one of the crumbling bridges and skips over the lava moat. A few piglins mill about the entrance to the bastion, and they snort and flick their ears as he approaches. He recognizes them, vaguely— the Wailer’s Bane, the Skullsplitter, the Hellcrier— and snorts in greeting. The Skullsplitter looks him over.

“Wraithkiller. Come to cause trouble?”

He wishes he had bigger ears to flick. “Come to barter.”

Pale eyes narrow slightly. “Because that went so well for you last time.”

“Spare us your squealing,” the Wailer’s Bane snaps, cocking her crossbow. “Let him pass.”

They do. He thumps his chest, and she nods to him, then returns to dully watching the horizon. She’s always been his favorite. She’s only tried to kill him three times, after all.

The bastion is alive with clamour, even so early into heatfall. He ignores the chatter and clanking above him, descending the staircase into the caverns below. The walls beside him turn from blackstone brick, to calcified netherrack, then back to brick. A moment later, they open up into a great cavern, and he grins.

Thunderhold awaits.

A mess of old ruins repurposed into a bustling market, Thunderhold is one of his favorite places in the Nether. Not that it’s got much competition, of course, but Thunderhold is _alive_ where few other places are. It’s not as colorful as the forests, but it’s bright and lively, well-lit by glowing lamps of strange construction. Merchants hawk their wares towards any piglin looking rich enough to barter, waving food and leather and whatever a survivor he could need. The air is thick with the scent of spice and meat, and his mouth waters. He ignores it.

He weaves through the thin crowd to the left wall, where the Dragontongue sits, lounging in his usual spot. He snorts when he spots Tommy coming, folding his arms behind his neck.

“Wraithkiller. Twenty bottles?”

“Yes.”

“Ten gold.”

“Oh, bull _shit._ ”

It’s the usual song and dance. Bartering is the convention, here; prices start high, a trap for the nervous or unassertive, and have to be argued lower. Tommy, loud as a wailing ghast and capable of being twice as irritating, considers himself a master barterer.

They haggle over the prices for a bit, coming nearly to shouting before the Dragontongue hisses through his teeth and agrees to five gold for twenty bottles— the same price he’s agreed to nearly every time for the past hell-knows-how-long. Tommy passes over the bars, and the bottles end up carefully deposited in his bag, wrapped up in a layer of hogleather. He’d learned his lesson about fragile glass bottles years ago. Piglin don’t offer refunds.

With that out of the way, it’s time for the big guns. Now, it’s time to face the Cavernbender.

What a joy.

When he arrives, the Cavernbender’s stand— more of a storefront, considering its size— is already bustling with activity. Piglin wander about, drawing hooves over the edge of great golden axes and swords. The Cavernbender himself sits at the back wall behind his crimson desk, as opulently-dressed as always.

Unsurprisingly, he’s spotted the second he shows his face. The news of his past altercation hasn’t quite lost its luster yet, so his arrival is met with flicked ears and interested snorts. He ignores them, puffing up his chest as he strides up to the trading table.

“Cavernbender.”

Cold eyes skim his face, and the Cavernbender slowly sits up, gold chains rustling around his neck. In the lamplight, he shines like a blaze, light dripping across the gold adorning nearly every inch of him. When he bares his teeth, Tommy gets a clear look at how many of them have been replaced.

“Wraithkiller. Back so soon?”

As usual, the Cavernbender’s voice is low and irritated, dripping with disdain. He feels the subtle dig of the remark in his chest, and he doesn’t bite.

“I’m here to barter for my sword,”

A pause, then squealing laughter rises throughout the stand, led of course by the Cavernbender. Tommy lets them get it out of their systems, cocking his head and crossing his arms.

Eventually, the Cavernbender’s laughter fades to quiet chuckling. “Oh, _are_ you,” he says. “And what do you have to offer me?”

Without a word, Tommy reaches into his bag and pulls out a single gold block. He slams it down onto the table, and the stand falls silent.

The Cavernbender leans forward, as avaricious as always. His pale eyes scrape over every inch of the gold; Tommy lets him reach forward to turn it this way and that, even to rap his hooves against it. It’ll hold up. He knows. He’s checked.

“This is certainly… an offer,” the Cavernbender says carefully. “And how did _you_ come to obtain this?”

He bares his teeth. “Is it any of your concern?”

“It is,” the Cavernbender says, slowly rising to his feet. He’s a _tall_ motherfucker, which Tommy often forgets because the lazy bitch hardly ever stands up. “Because, as you know, I don’t deal with _thieves_.”

The jab at his integrity is clear. He juts out his lower jaw in place of tusks, cocking his head.

“Fine. I bartered it off the Blood God.”

Silence, then fervent murmuring. The Cavernbender pauses, baring his teeth patronizingly.

“ _You_ met the Blood God.”

“Yeah. Last heatfall. Saw him wandering across the wastes with some dude. Decked out in this weird, shimmering blue armor. Had a sword as long as my arm to match.”

As he talks, the mirth fades from the Cavernbender’s eyes, replaced with cold severity. He believes him. So that really _was_ the Blood God he met.

“And what did _you_ have to offer the Blood God?” 

“Pathfinding,” he says. It’s a half-truth, but it’ll hold up. 

“For a solid block of true gold?”

“Man’s rich, what can I say.” Excitement fizzles in his gut. “So, do we have a deal?”

“You really met the Blood God.” The Cavernbender’s voice is slow, heavy. “Where is he now?”

Tommy frowns. “The fuck? How would I know?”

“You led him.”

“Yeah, through the tangled wood, towards Bonedeep.” Actually, to his house, but technically also in the direction of Bonedeep. “He left after that. How the hell would I know where he is now?”

The Cavernbender tilts his head, and something clanks behind him. Before he can turn, there’s an arm across his shoulders and an axeblade to his throat, pinning him in place. He freezes, panic and fury roaring in his veins. _Shit._

“I’m going to explain this simply so you can understand, _human_ ,” the Cavernbender says. “You are going to tell me where the Blood God is, or I am going to kill you.”

Literally fuck this guy. “I told you, I don’t _know_.”

“You met the most powerful piglin known of, directly enough to _barter_ _with him_ , and didn’t keep track of him?” The Cavernbender snarls, stepping past the table to tower over him. “ _You_ of all creatures caught a glimpse of the untrackable, and you _let. Him. Go?_ ”

Tommy has no rebuttal to offer to that. He strains minutely against whoever’s holding him, and the axe tightens enough to draw blood. 

“You have been a thorn in my side since you arrived,” the Cavernbender says. “With you gone, perhaps that _luck_ of yours will fall to someone deserving of it.”

He squeals, and the axe bites into Tommy’s neck and prepares to pull. Sharp, fire-white panic roars through his chest, and he screams and thrashes like a cornered animal and squeezes his eyes shut— 

A sharp _twick._ The axe freezes, then slips down, clattering to the ground. He sucks in a gasp just as a heavy body collapses against his back; when he shoulders it off, it slumps limply to the floor. He turns to find a piglin he doesn’t recognize, wide eyes glazed and blank. An arrowhead juts from between them, stained red.

“ _What—”_ the Cavernbender starts, lurching to his feet as the stand breaks out into shouting. Accusations are hurled blindly, and Tommy whirls around, trying to spot his anonymous savior. He doesn’t, mostly because his search is interrupted by the Cavernbender pulling out his infamous battleaxe with a furious roar.

“ _Enough!_ I’ll spill my blood _yourself,_ then!”

He leaps, axe slashing towards Tommy’s throat. Before he can even begin to duck, it reaches him— only to be intercepted in a shower of sparks by a familiar blue blade.

Tommy stumbles back, eyes huge, and promptly bumps into a broad, armored chest. He looks up, and the Blood God looks down at him, somewhere between amused and unimpressed.

“Hey, kid.”

“Uh,” Tommy says, completely lost. Before he can put together a coherent response, he’s scooped up against the Blood God’s chest with a squeak. The Cavernbender charges again, squealing with fury, and the Blood God easily deflects his strike, swipes his feet from beneath him, and pins him with a blade to the throat. All without dropping Tommy, who dangles, slack-jawed, from his other arm.

“There are easier ways to find me than tryin’ to kill a child, you know,” the Blood God rumbles.

“ _You,”_ the Cavernbender gargles. “Your title will be _mine_ —”

“Yeah, good luck with that.”

The Blood God steps back, and Tommy tears his eyes from the fallen piglin and looks up to find basically all of Thunderhold staring at them. The room is deathly still, so silent he can hear the faint crackle of lava beyond the walls.

“Hm,” the Blood God says.

The stillness shatters; weapons are drawn, war cries are squealed, and all of Thunderhold foams at the mouth for a swing at the seat at the top of the social ladder. And normally Tommy wouldn't _care_ , would step back and watch the power struggle with interest, maybe place a bet or two— but, with the Blood God’s arm around his chest and his feet hanging off the ground, he’s trapped right in the middle of it.

“Blood God—” Tommy starts.

“Yeah, I’m on it. Hold on.” He flicks a hand, and something glassy and green appears in his palm— an ender pearl. He hurls it at the wall above the top of the staircase, and there it shatters into a burst of violet sparks. 

Something pulls at Tommy’s gut, and then he’s sucked in the direction of the pearl with a stomach-twisting lurch. In an instant, they’re standing at the top of the staircase, and Tommy feels rather like someone melted him down and abruptly resolidified him with the wrong proportions. 

He’s given no time to recompose himself. The Blood God breaks into a sprint, tearing up the stairs and out of the bastion, paying no mind to the startled shouts of the door guards. Tommy’s forced to draw his legs up to keep them out of the way, powerless to clutch at the Blood God’s arm as he’s carried out of the bastion and into the whispering valley.

Well, no one’s doubting that he met the Blood God anymore, at least.

The Blood God keeps up the pace until they’re well out of sight of the bastion, slowing to a stop at the far edge of the whispering valley. Only then does he _finally_ let Tommy down, who promptly nearly eats shit when his legs turn to jelly beneath him. He manages to stay standing by sheer stubbornness alone, twisting around to face his apparent savior.

He has a million questions. _What was that? Why were you there? Why did you help me? Did you know that would happen? Why didn’t anybody see you before?_

What he manages to get out is a choked, “What?”

“Figured that would happen,” the Blood God says easily. “It seems I’ve reached the point where even a mention of my name makes ‘em mad. They always said fame was overrated.”

“Why were you _there?_ ” Tommy says. “What—”

“To keep you from gettin’ stabbed. Phil would have my head if you died. How’s your neck?”

He blinks, bringing a hand up to it. His palm comes away soaked with red, and now that the adrenaline’s wearing off, he can _definitely_ feel it. 

“Fine,” he replies. Wait, what was that about Philza?

“Uh huh. I’ll let Phil handle that. Try not to bleed out on the way.”

He starts walking. Tommy doesn’t follow, opting only to stare.

The Blood God looks over his shoulder. “Coming?”

“Coming _where?_ ” Tommy asks. “I don’t— what the fuck is going on? Why does Philza give a shit if I die? Why do _you?_ Why are you here, why did you _help_ me, what the fuck—”

The Blood God clears his throat, and Tommy's blundering questions trail off.

“Philza doesn’t want you dead because he’s got a bleeding heart and you’re a kid living all alone in the Nether,” the Blood God tells him plainly. “And I don’t want you dead because you remind me an uncomfortable amount of myself.”

He reminds the Blood God of himself. In any other situation he’d be preening; as it is, he can only stare.

“...Where are you taking me?” He asks finally, grip tightening on his bag, He hasn’t gotten his sword back. He probably never will. 

“Somewhere better,” the Blood God says. “Trust me. You’ll like it.”

He hesitates. He doesn’t _know_ the Blood God, and following random piglins has never ended well for him. Besides, he has a life here. He has a home here.

A life that’s been basically upended. After that shitshow, he’ll probably be shot on sight if he dares to show his face anywhere near the bastion again. Without Thunderhold, he has no bartering. Most importantly, he has no water. 

He has twenty bottles. That’ll last him a week and a half, tops. There’s no telling if he can find another trading post in that time, let alone one that doesn’t know of him. It’s not odds he wants to gamble his life on. 

On the other hand, if he blindly follows the Blood God, he might be walking to his own death. But that’s just the thing— if the Blood God wanted him dead, he’d _be dead._ The Blood God’s the _Blood God_ , and armed to the teeth. If he wanted Tommy gone, he’d have skewered him any time in the past heatfall. Hell, he’d just have _let him die_ to one of the Cavernbender’s soldiers. 

But for some reason, the Blood God and his human friend seems to want him alive. 

So, for now, he’ll follow.

“Fine,” he says. The Blood God sighs with relief.

“Thank god. I did _not_ wanna have to carry you kicking and screaming the whole way.”

So he didn’t have a choice either way. That’s… not encouraging, frankly, but he refuses to let his anxiety show.

“You wouldn’t be able to stop me from getting away if I wanted,” he says.

The Blood God snorts. “You wanna test that theory?”

He does not.

They walk. Past the wastes, past the crimson forest, past Tommy’s home. He falters as the door comes into view, and the Blood God pauses.

“You need to grab anything? You probably won’t be coming back.”

He thinks, filing through his list of belongings in his mind. All his gold’s in his bag; so is his prized possession, his only song, in the event that he’d needed to trade it for his sword. There’s nothing there he can’t live without.

He shakes his head. The Blood God shrugs, and on they go.

They walk further than Tommy’s ever explored, trailing along the edge of an unfamiliar crimson forest. Hoglins squeal distantly within, and he grips the shaft of his spear with white knuckles. Mercifully, none come charging out at them (though it’s not like the Blood God would have much of a problem with them, he’s sure) and they eventually leave the forest behind. The biome that looms ahead of them in its place is the one he’s always avoided like the plague, charred and spindly in appearance. The delta, the dead man’s garden. 

“We’re going in _there?_ ” He asks with a grimace, shoulders hitching. 

“It’s not far,” the Blood God says. “Pull your— hm.”

“What?” Tommy asks, but the Blood God has already stopped, stepping around and crouching to look at him. He pokes at the fabric of Tommy’s shirt— stiff, solid hogleather— and frowns. 

“You won’t be able to breathe through that,” he hums thoughtfully, sifting through his inventory. “Hm… here.”

Tommy starts the Blood God unbuckles the forearm of his armor and tears off a wide strip of the shirt beneath. It’s black, and when it’s handed to him, he finds the texture unlike anything he’s ever felt. It’s light, and stretchy, and _soft_ ; he pulls it between his hands, letting it lengthen and contract like a spring. The Blood God clears his throat.

“Tie that around your face, over your mouth and nose. That’ll keep the ash out.”

He does, and is surprised to find that he can still breathe. The Blood God guides him into the ashfall, and sure enough, the large flurries get stuck on the outside of the fabric instead of being sucked into his fragile lungs. He has to wipe the cloth down with his hand when it gets too clogged, but that’s far more pleasant than slowly suffocating. 

The Blood God simply pulls his shirt up over his snout. (How is it so _stretchy?)_ He’s about to comment on how stupid it looks, consequences be damned, when his attention is abruptly snatched by the structure that emerges from the ashy murk. A tall rectangle of shiny black rock, filled with a swirling, melty membrane of bright violet. 

It’s a fucking _portal._

He’s never seen one up close before; at least, not a functional one. Overworld travelers always break theirs behind them as they leave, so he’s only ever observed the obsidian frame. Up close, the portal membrane shivers and ripples like something alive; when he really looks, he can see the faint imprints of other colors churning across its surface like an oil slick.

He looks up at the Blood God. “We’re going to the _Overworld?_ ”

“Yup,” the Blood God says. “Word of advice. Don’t open your eyes.”

“I’ll open my eyes if I want to, bitch,” Tommy bristles.

“It’ll hurt, and you’ll probably pass out, but suit yourself,” the Blood God replies with a shrug. “You ready?”

 _Of course_ , he wants to say, but he isn’t, really. At all. In the span of maybe an hour, his whole world’s been flipped on its head. And now he’s _leaving_ his world for one he knows absolutely nothing about, and he owes a life debt to the most dangerous piglin alive, and nothing makes sense anymore.

What he voices instead, as nonchalantly as he can, is this: “Does it hurt?”

“No.” A hand settles at his shoulder, and he stiffens, but lets it guide him up to the portal. “Does feel weird, but it doesn’t hurt.”

 _Pain is relative_ , he muses half-heartedly, but decides to take the Blood God’s word on it. God. He’s really doing this, isn’t he.

Well, fuck it. All or nothing.

“Here, we’ll go on three,” the Blood God says, a little patronizingly. “One—”

Tommy plunges into the portal, and the world falls away.

**Author's Note:**

> nether worldbuilding go brrrr. like i said this was inspired by my own messing around in nether-start worlds, wondering what it would actually be to live like that. plus i just fucking love writing the nether lol
> 
> i may or may not write a continuation of this. i have a few ideas for it but my motivation is a fickle thing so we shall see
> 
> if there's any typos or anything let me know, i prolly missed some. i have a habit of mixing up hoglin and piglin lmao. also concrit's cool as long as ur not, like.


End file.
